If Winter Ends
by iamtheunknown15
Summary: Two separate eggs, two separate sperm, two utterly different fates. Yet bounded, in that they shared a womb, in that they shared both sorrows and joys, in that they both were dysfunctional… in that they both were twins - ON HIATUS
1. Proposal

Okay, so I know that I already have another fanfic going ("In My Daughter's Eyes"). However, I have another idea for a new story that I'd like to write simultaneously. Here's the information:

Title: "If Winter Ends"

The title comes from a song of the same name by Bright Eyes which relates greatly to what will be the plotline (WARNING – the song does contain a few curse words)

Category: House M.D. (obviously)

Family/drama/hurt and comfort/romance

Pairings:

**Main Couples**

Thirteen/ House

Wilson/ Cuddy

**Minor Couples**

Cameron/ Chase

Foreman/ OC

Other Character Information:

Kutner and Amber are both deceased in this fanfic. Taub will be in this

I started to get this idea soon after finishing the book, _Identical_, by Ellen Hopkins (it's very good if you haven't read it). Now, of course the story really doesn't directly relate to the plotline of the novel…just the first couple poems (very loosely) and the fact that it's written from the point of view of two twins. Anyway…

Premise:

Two separate eggs, two separate sperm, two utterly different fates. Yet bounded, in that they shared a womb, in that they shared both sorrows and joys, in that they both were dysfunctional… in that they both were twins. When Harper and Teagan Hadley-House were born, they looked identical: wisps of caramel brown hair, ivory pale skin, crystal blue eyes. But underneath the surface, in the microscopic coil of their DNAs lay one immense, irrevocable difference… the first had Huntington's chorea, the second did not.

Any thoughts? Please review with questions, comments, concerns, ideas, etc!

-biologygirl06


	2. Chapter 1: Introduction

Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D.

**Introduction**

_Teagan's POV_

Bonds

When I was nine, I went digging through the hallway closet, searching for photos… searching for the past. You see, this was something my parents never discussed with us; the earlier part of their lives… their childhood, parents… were kept under lock and key, deep somewhere impenetrable… if anywhere at all.

But the silence left me curious, and the infantile "family tree" project my sixth grade teacher assigned was the perfect excuse, the perfect chance, to scrape away the walls surrounding my parents' lives.

I submerged myself in the castaways of our apartment's closet, climbing over massive boxes of med school notebooks, pushing apart pairs of old shoes, ducking under fallen winter coats, and avoiding a trip over an empty pill bottle. Finally, I found what I had been looking for: a brown photo album, blanketed by dust with a faded calligraphic: "Family."

Now, do not be mistaken; my home had pictures… but they were in frame, unconsolidated and chronicled, simply of me, Harper, Mom, Dad, Uncle Wilson, etc… _Never_ of my grandparents and _never_ dated prior to the early 2000s. The book I held in my hands, I prayed, would be different. I lowered the door quietly, until just a sliver of light peeked through, and with my trembling hands opened to the first page.

What I found, however, was new (well, at least in a relative sense). It was a sonogram, a swirl of different gray shades that seems completely chaotic and random and yet… in the midst of the tempestuous waves lay two darkened shadows, curled so that within their respective placentas, they were pressed together as close as possible… a dual support system.

My sister and I had always been bonded. It's a twin thing I suppose; being forced upon conception to cohabitate, to share experiences (at least most). We're learning about bonding in chemistry class now; they're strong. Atomically based yet requiring the strongest of forces to divide, to destroy. Mrs. Lautrie says there are different types of bonds. There's covalent, where both atoms share, create an orbit that combines their compositions. Then there's ionic in which one atom is stripped of pieces of its being, these pieces used to feed the other, who is supposedly weak, unstable.

I tend to think that mine and Harper's bond is the latter.

_***_

_Harper's POV_

Fate

Romulus and Remus, Jacob and Esau, heck, Mary Kate and Ashley… my entire life I have been fascinated by twins… because I have questions, questions I am not sure will _ever_ be answered.

Identical twins: 1 egg, 1 sperm. One divided into two, perhaps because a singular body could not hold all the life that lays within… an internal battle for balance. Or perhaps it's just random, an indiscriminate severance with irrevocable consequence.

Selfishly, though, I am more concerned with fraternal twins. Here, 4 separate cells resulting in two combinations… conception simultaneous. Here is where my questions mostly lay. How does a supreme being (if one does actually exist) choose which person is sent into which body? Which soul receives which set of genes… which deserves which genes?

Maybe I deserved my fate… that God or Allah or Vishnu knew something about me, something horrible I've just been unable to recognize… But I'd like to believe otherwise, desperately would like to believe that it was arbitrary… I suppose I'll never know.

One gene codons, one mistake, an original mutation that occurred generations ago; that's all it took.

I was five when my parents told me I had Juvenile Huntington's Chorea.

***

A/N: Questions, comments, feedback? All are greatly appreciated. Please review :)


	3. Chapter 2: Confusion

Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D.

**Chapter 1: Confusion**

The brisk winter air stung Teagan's face as she dismounted the bus. Repositioning her navy blue scarf to better cover her neck, she quickly scurried down the sidewalk, in pursuit of her destination and the warmth (at least temperature-wise) that it brought. Finally, she reached the foggy glass doors and, after scraping her uniform shoes across a mat, stepped onto the marble floors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. From there, it was routine: avoid Dr. Cuddy and her peppy questioning about your schooling, board the elevator, throw thirty pound backpack onto the ground as not to develop scoliosis, listen to elevator music to avoid the inane conversation of another passenger (just nod occasionally…they think you're listening), walk to Dad's office, say hello to him and the team if they're not too busy with a case, drop a jelly doughnut on his desk, proceed to drag backpack through the labyrinth of hallways (while taking care not to trip those using walkers or with IV stands), and finally arrive ─ Room 142.

_Teagan's POV_

Trips to the hallway closet became a nightly endeavor. Standard ritual: first, I'd hop into bed, nestling myself within the soft lilac comforter and attempting a demeanor of fatigue. Goodnight hugs and kisses from Mom and Dad followed (always an extra kiss for Harper from the former; for Dad and I, in the meanwhile, practiced our secret handshake…) Then silence, pervaded only by the soft breathes that escaped Harper's mouth. I'd lie there, just staring at the blank, white ceiling, and listen to this sound… inspiration, expiration, inspiration… until her shallow breaths would deepen and I'd know she was fast asleep. Only then would I slide my arm out from the confines of my blanket to grab the metal alarm clock positioned on the nightstand. With cautious motions, I'd set the alarm for 2 o'clock a.m. (when my parents would surely be asleep), and slip it under my pillow

The muffled ring would wake me and me alone. I enjoyed this solidarity. Though I loved Harper with all of my heart (she was, after all, my twin), this was one thing that was purely mine, not hers. One thing I didn't have to share, or rather _give_, to her…

When the hushed chime awoke me, I'd slide out of bed swiftly, taking care that my sock-covered feet landed softly on the ground. Then, I'd progress to grope blindly down the pitch hallway. After an awful journey, satiated with anxiety and slowness, I'd stealthily open the closet door and slip inside. Separating two boxes between which I'd positioned my treasure, soon, the album would be on my lap, a flashlight in my hands… my history in my fingertips.

One night I was not so fortunate. The patter of footsteps permeated the stillness of my refuge, an intruder to my haven down the hall. I clutched the album tightly, hugging it close to my chest. Pressing my back against the sharp corner of adjoining wall, I held my breath as to not create extraneous noise. My efforts were futile.

The swift swing of the opening door blew a cold wind upon my face. I looked up slowly, tears threatening to spill, preparing for anger, knowing I was toast for not only staying up past bedtime but also for snooping around. Instead, I met my mother's soft eyes, morphed into saddened blue pools, gazing intently at the object in my arms… sadness, pity even, not anger greeted me; I was confused. Without a word, she lifted me and my book off the dusty ground, brushing me clean with her hands. She then enveloped me in a gentle hug, pressing her lips upon my messy brown hair. For what seemed like minutes, we remained statues, epitomical mother and daughter, messages exchanged without words. She understood how much I needed to know…

Finally, she took the flashlight out of my hand and led me back into mine and Harper's bedroom; she then to the album and placed it on my nightstand, another silent exchange that told me it was mine now. After lifting me onto the bed, she herself hopped up onto the mattress. "Ouch!" she suddenly exclaimed, a perplexed look upon her face. Groping around, she finally pulled out the alarm clock. With a laugh, she grinned at me: "You had quite the elaborate plan, didn't you?" I nodded with smile before cuddling up against her.

"Night, Momma.

"Night, Teagan. I love you so, so much."

These special moments, just me and my mother… her just understanding _me_ are few and far between (though they are my most valued memories). I know she loves me (or I at least try to convince myself of that), but I am not _Harper_. Of course, there is no outward display of this; to any onlooker, it would appear as though she treats us the same. But there is always that extra glint in her smile, that additional compliment, another kiss on the forehead for my sister…

And I don't understand… _why_. No matter how hard I try, it seems like I cannot live up to whatever my mother wants me to be…

_Whatever that is, anyway_

A/N: Thank you again for the reviews last chapter. I really appreciate them and keep them in mind when I am deciding how to style my next chapter. A couple of things: first, whenever it is one of the twin's points of view, the section is dealing primarily the relaying of a memory and the girl's reflections. All unlabeled passages (like the beginning part of this chapter), are narrations of the present. Currently, Teagan and Harper are twelve years old. Thirteen is thirty-six and House is sixty (though still as immature and young at heart than ever).

Please review with any comments or questions. I'll be sure to respond :)

Thanks,

biologygirl06


	4. Chapter 3: Time

A/N: Sorry for not updating recently. My laptop wasn't working and I'm too impatient to upload something on my family's old computer. Anyway, my laptop's better now, so here's an update :) Please review!

**Chapter 3: Time**

Harper's hand froze. "Darn," she mumbled. Hoping to reinstall movement, she whacked it noisily against her desk. "Ouch," she squeaked, resulting in the curious glares of her classmates as they turned around in their desks. With a sheepish and apologetic grin, she grasped her throbbing hand against her chest, praying they'd turn back soon. Luckily, her outburst wasn't as much of a disturbance to her classmates as it was to her. Raising non-injured hand, she asked her teacher for the lavatory pass and hurried down the hallway. Finding refuge in an abandoned stall, she finally released her arm and fretfully watched as it continued to stiffen; her attempts had been fruitless. Unfortunately, this was nothing new, but that fact didn't make it any less easy to watch. To distract herself, she turned her head to the graffiti that adorned the dirty-tan paint of the door; her eye was drawn to a supposed conversation of a group of three, maybe four, girls judging by the discrepancies in handwriting.

I love Charlie G. CG & KE 4 ever

HA! Lsr, CG is such a manwhore.

^ Wow, jealous much

As if!

Sure… note the sarcasm wannabe

Harper sighed, rolling her eyes at the inane nature of the conversation. "Maybe it's because I'm younger than them," she thought, "but I'm really just not into the drama." Deep down though, she knew it was because she literally didn't have time for it. With that, she reexamined her hand, which had thankfully concluded its spasm. Grabbing the pass off of the hook, she headed back to class.

_Harper's POV_

Sometimes I wonder if all of this is worth it… school, friends, plans, you know. After all, time is restricted. Though the exact duration is a mystery, unsolvable by any doctor, specialist, parent, I do understand that I have but a little time left (six years _tops_, and that is unlikely. My symptoms occurred early so I die early… the prognosis so simple; living it is not.

An old CMDT text, blanketed by dust (obviously untouched for decades)… this is what I sought for answers to what everyone was too afraid to tell me. Because I was young, I was puerile and innocent; I was vulnerable according to them, too destructible to know my own fate. I could have title, "Juvenile Huntington's Chorea," just not definition. I was too spiteful to have just that…

A,B,C…H, my fingers danced across the pages. Huntington's Chorea… my mother's disease. "characterized by chorea and dementia…at 4p16.3 expanded and unstable CAG trinucleotide repeat," my brain absorbed. "prevalence rate of about 5 in 100,000." 0.000005% chance, I could do the math. "Autosomal dominant." 50% chance for me; I drew the genetic card and then another: "About 10 percent of HD cases occur in individuals under the age of 20 years…. Juvenile Huntington's Disease…between infancy and 20 years of age… stiff or rigid in their movements (instead of having chorea)…recurrent seizures." The words melted together into a confusing haze. But one phrase remained clear: "There is no cure for Huntington's disease."

So why should it matter? Teagan and I started school early and skipped two grades just so I could "experience as much knowledge as I could," according to my parents. But how much did it freakin' matter? How would knowing the periodic table or understanding algebraic functions aid me when I was dead and cold in the ground? How did having friends help me when I'd eventually have to leave them all behind, leave them in pain? Why should I worry about tomorrow when the overall outcome is the same?

Sometimes I wish I'd die already just to get it over with.

A/N: Sorry, another sad chapter :( I'll include some happy stuff soon; I promise. As with everyone's age, sorry if it caused any confusion. The show doesn't specify Thirteen's age and I needed her to still young enough where she's still alive as most Huntington's patients die by 40 years old. I did, however, manage to figure out a way in which she could be thirty-six if you stretch it, lol. I'd guess that Thirteen skipped a grade or two for the same reasons as Harper. Also, she could have participated in a 3 X 3 medical program, making her undergraduate and med school duration combined only 6 six years… it really is stretching it, but oh well, lol.

Anyway, thank you for reading and hope you review with questions and comments (positive or negative, both are appreciated). I'll be sure to respond :)


	5. Chapter 4: Hope

**Chapter 4: Hope**

The cold, metal door knob stung Teagan's hand as she carefully twisted it open. Peaking inside, she was met with a contorted smile. "Heyyy…Hhharper," the familiar voice slurred in the midst of a convulsion.

"No," she said gently, "it's Teagan mom. Harper is still at school for therapy."

"Tea..gann," Thirteen tested, processing the information. Sure, it hurt Teagan, hurt that her own mother could no longer recognize her directly. But she understood; she was older now and knew it was just the disease. She convinced herself… it _had_ to be just the disease. Suddenly, Thirteen nodded her head sharply; she had comprehended. "Oh, Teagan," she said as apologetically as her now monotone voice would allow, then proceed with the conversation. She used to become increasingly upset with every mistake she made, every item she forgot. Now, the loss of memory was so constant that she could no longer afford to become angry; she had come to accept her own fate. "Hhh…how wasss ssschool, Sweetie?"

"It went well," Teagan responded, as per routine, almost a return to normal, an average mother-daughter conversation. "We've been reading more of that book I really like, _To Kill a Mockingbird_." Again, Thirteen struggles to remember.

"I thi… I think I rrread that. Do you… do you have iitt?"

"Mmhm," Teagan nodded, reaching over too your book bag. Grabbing the well-worn school copy, she placed into her mother's groping palm. As carefully as she could, Thirteen opened to the first page and squinted at the words. Abruptly, her wrist jerked in another choric spasm and the novel fell to the bedside floor. A few yellowed pages dropped out on the impact, but Teagan bit her lip and swiftly slipped them back inside, not needing her mother to feel any guilt. Thirteen gave a sheepish smile, "Yoouu rreadd itt?"

Teagan nodded, again opening the book and hopping up next to her mother on the bed and cuddling to her side, "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…"

***

_Teagan's POV_

Emily Dickinson once wrote, "There is no greater frigate than a book." Bluntly, I adore literature. I live reading, breathe writing. I know this may appear odd; after all, I am product of two doctors who are fascinated by the depths of the human body, physical things, there seeking truth. But I am more consumed by the deepness of the human soul, and when I am around books, I feel closer and closer to that. I can find a place where reality and fantasy begin to intertwine.

I began reading by the time I was four and never looked back… or rather looked up from my books. It started with picture books, sentences intermingled with images that words failed to describe. Then my habits progressed… fairy tales and fables, "easy readers" to novelettes to novels and sagas, old medical books from the hallway closet. I even read cereal boxes while eating breakfast when I was desperate.

Reading was my escape… it was the means by which I could get away from the horrible realities of my world. "There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away; Nor any coursers like a page of prancing poetry…" Because it was a treasury of fairy tales upon my lap when I read with my mother, back when she was healthy. It was the easy readers and _Junie B. Jones's_ series that my sister and I laughed over for hours when we were kids. It was the medical books I explored, in pursuit to find any hope in my mother and sister's disease. It was the cereal boxes I focused on while my mother's arms began to jerk, knocking plates that shattered on the floor. It was novels I absorbed myself with in order to fade the sound of my father's hushed cries when he thought he was alone.

I used to pretend I was a part of the stories I read, wishing that somehow, someway some of the whimsy and joy of these tales could pervade into my life. I know it sounds useless, that my father escapism was futile in the end; the real world was tough without avail. But I wanted… no, _needed_ this liberation. I will find purpose through my reading: "Fiction reveals truths that reality obscures." My books, the little hope I cling to when all else seems lost, are here to stay.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed :D


	6. Chapter 5: Identity

Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D.

A/N: I'm back to writing! So sorry for the hiatus.

**Chapter 5: Identity**

The water danced across Harper's skin as she glided swiftly through the water. She was free. Liberation through such a simple mean, because when she swam, there was no rigidity, no stumbling, no clumsiness. She was normal in the buoyancy of the water, nimble when weightless.

Two more kicks and with a swing of her arm she met concrete. Smiling, she lifted her arms so the assistant could pull her out of the pool.

"Great job, Harper," said her trainer, calling up from the water, where she was helping another girl reach the platform.

"Thanks, Coach Murray."

"You know, you really should consider swimming in the NDAA meet. It's next Saturday."

Harper glared at the tile floor. "I'll…uh… I'll think about it."

"Alright, really do. I'll see you tomorrow. We're all doing flex therapy so make sure you bring your Thera-Band."

"Okay, thank you." With that, Harper went to the locker room to change into a pair of purple sweats. She then returned to the pool room, taking a seat on the cushioned bench, enjoying the stark smell of chlorine that permeated the air. Pulling off her water shoes, she wiggled her wrinkled toes to warm them up. As she was slipping on her pair of flip flops, a cheerful voice interrupted her: "Harper"

Smiling, Harper looked up, recognizing her friend's voice. "Hey Ryder!," she said, greeting the boy with a hug. "Where were you today?"

"Respiratory therapy down the hall," he said, adjusting himself in his braces, "I'll be at flex therapy tomorrow though."

"Cool, me too."

"Awesome! How was swimming?" he asked, moving a wet strand of hair away from her eye.

"It went okay. Uh…Coach Murray wants me to swim in that meet…" she began, looking uncomfortably at the patterns on the tile floor.

"Oh my gosh, you totally should! I'll be your cheerleader… pom poms and all."

"Oh dear, that would make the experience worth it in itself," Harper said laughing, "Hey, you should participate, too."

"Totally would if I could." With slight embarrassment and an irrepressible tinge of disappointment he continued, "Too big of a risk with the arrhythmias and all."

"Oh…"

"Yeah," Ryder said, forcing a slight smile and allowing his green eyes to brighten again. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he continued, "But you totally should. It's next weekend, right?"

"Uh…Yep," she said, glancing at his hand. For some reason, she now felt very shy and sensed the blood rush to her cheeks. Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated against her hip. "That's my uncle. I've got to go."

"Alright. See you tomorrow, Harper," he said with a glittery smile.

"Bye, Ry," she said, before turning the corner. Readjusting her bag, she walked quickly down the hallway. But of course, directly in her path, pinned to the door, were the flyers: Northeastern Disabled Athletic Association: Annual New Jersey Athletes Meet. With a sigh, she grabbed a bright yellow paper and slipped it into her bag.

_Harper's Point of View_

My mother was the one who taught me how to swim. Me and Teagan. We were four years old when she used to drag my father to take us to the Princeton Community Center Pool.

I loved it from the beginning. I remember my mother diving into the water, piercing its surface gracefully with a curved stature before we lost sight of her in its depth, anxiously waiting for her to return to the surface so she could prove to us, with our four year old minds, that someone could return from this curious abyss. I remember her swimming back to the shallow water, a most natural smile resonating, me wanting that same feeling. I remember posing myself on the end of the pool, feet scratching themselves against the concrete, about to jump in before hearing my mother's voice with a frantic, "Wait!" She quickly swam over, "You're not a sea turtle, Sweetie," she said with a laugh, "You're going to need a bit of help before you're a natural." Directing her attention to my dad, she continued, "Greg! Could you please make sure we don't have any more unattended jumping."

"Mhmm," he responded, not quite paying attention, looking distastefully at the water with Teagan following in a similar suit.

My mother laughed before turning back to be. "Okay, Missy," she began, positioning herself near me, "_Now_ you can jump." And I did. I felt the sudden splash of water against my skin before my mother caught me. Then our merging laughter, as she showed me how to float, how to glide through the water, how to measure my breaths. Our mischievous laughs as we splashed my father and sister and watched them cringe like cats. Our accomplished laughs, when we finally got Teagan to join us, adorned by her bright orange swimmies and nervous disposition. Our surprised laughs when my father finally joined in and cradled my mother in his arms… after, of course sneaking behind her and dunking her into the water.

Apparently I _was_ a natural, constantly diving beneath the surface and swimming a s far as my legs would carry me in one breath. It took my parents a few hours before they could finally extricate me from the water before we could drive home, hair stained with the scent of chlorine.

I love the water. So it would appear to be difficult to explain why I do not want to swim in the NDAA meet. I could easily say it was because it reminded me too much of my mother; sure, therapy is mandatory, but why subject myself to an optional bout of swimming. But that would be a lie. Truth is, that it is the name. N_D_AA: National _Disabled_ Athletic Association. I…was fine. Up until my ninth birthday, I showed absolutely no symptoms of JH whatsoever. I don't…_want_ to finally take the title of disable, to give up.

For some reason , swimming in this meet would do just that.

A/N: Ryder does not have Juvenile Huntington's. He has Emery-Dreifuss Muscular Dystrophy. It is a genetic muscular dystrophy that affects the skeletal and cardiac muscles and sometimes the respiratory system. For more information, go to or Mayo


	7. Chapter 6: Seconds

A/N: Sorry for the HUGE delay. Hopefully this makes up for it. I'll try to write more often now.

Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. (nor do I have a creative disclaimer)

Seconds

_Teagan's Point of View_

34 minutes, 20 seconds. We've gotten it down to a science by now.

3 minutes for my father to scoop my flailing mother out of bed and to place her back in her chair while my Uncle Wilson prevents the multitude of tubing from tangling like the chords of my father's old guitar

My father hasn't touched that guitar in 2 years. Not since mom spilt that first glass of wine at their anniversary dinner. It left a bright red stain on his only dress shirt. My father's heart was much more impressionable. Later that night, I found the shirt buried in the trashcan. When I pulled it out, it unfurled like a flag, portending the oncoming trials as an empty pill bottle rolled onto the floor. It wasn't one of my mother's medications. In fact, my mom's face became ghost white when I showed it to her, her lips folding into tight, purplish lines. She sent me to bed quickly. I hid behind a bookshelf. I heard the padding of my mother's feet as she walked the wooden floor to the couch, where my father lay in some sort of stupor. I heard the crack of her hand as it slapped him across the face. When I peeked around the side, I saw her glaring at him, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her cerulean eyes were stormy rage and angry tears. "Not for me!" she kept yelling as he enveloped her into his arms, "Not for me!"

10 seconds for me to buckle the belts, securing her in her wheelchair

I slipped out of my highchair once. The belts were far too loose and dangled around my chubby baby thighs. Mom was tired, the stress of twins and a demanding job wearing her thin. She was dozing off over a still-full cup of coffee when I must have slipped both of my legs between two straps and wiggled free. My mother said she will never forget the sound of that piercing cry, turning to see my blood spattered across the kitchen's linoleum and one of her little girls lying crumbled on the floor. It turned out that I only needed four stitches to seal the gash on my chin. Mom treated me like the most pressing of emergencies though. She was hysterical when she carried me into the emergency room, threatening lawsuits against her own hospital if Dr. Taub did not come down immediately. Hearing later of the frenzied behavior of his employee-wife, my father broke down into laughter, telling my mother he would never let her live this down. She didn't find it funny when the following week he put ketchup on Harper's chin in the hospital cafeteria and called a Code Blue.

10 minutes to meander out of the hospital - never really a problem as nobody want to stop my father for a chat

They used to stop my mother, mostly out of curiosity. When my parents first started dating, many people were confused; A plus B didn't seem to add up. There was my father, a fifty-year-old misanthropic genius who preferred puzzles to people. And then my mother, a gorgeous burgeoning doctor, over 20 years his minor, who had every option (boy and girl, so I'm told) at her fingertips. It was obvious why he chose her. She was the puzzle her could never crack, a mystery who was just as beautiful for her intrigue as for her physicality. And yet they were more alike than many believed- curious, self-deprecating, struggling with fate. Though they handled it differently- she with compassion, he with skepticism- both struggled with the same presented brutal reality and a passion for something they could not describe that kept them moving on.

1 minute 10 seconds to get her into the car, 15 to drive home, and another 4 to get my mother up into our apartment.

She hates it. My mother was the most independent woman that had ever existed. She had a certain sense of empowerment that seemed to leave others with a sense of awe and envy. Now, many believe she has lost that spark, watching as she relies on others for movement, for comfort, for life. But I know that fervor is still within her. It is the spark that keeps her frail body alive.

They doubted my father. It was Gregory House, after all… a man who could hardly keep his best friend. There was no way he could care for not only a bride, but a dying one at that. My father doesn't outwardly show affection now (he never really had). But if you wait around for that last minute, you'll see how he lofts himself onto the bed next to my mother, wraps his arms around her, and holds her in utter silence as she cries.

A/N: Review please and let me know what you think! I'll try to update asap.


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